


Spring Snow

by Nomme_de_Plume



Series: The Pursued, the Pursuing - AU [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:56:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nomme_de_Plume/pseuds/Nomme_de_Plume
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The origins of Jon Snow. Still AU, set in turn-of-the-century Europe this time for a change of pace, roughly 18 years before 'The Pursued, The Pursuing. Feedback still welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Snow

 

_March 1906, Paris, France_

Ned Stark didn’t hate Paris as much as he would after he returned home from it, but it was far from his favorite place to be. He missed the neat, manicured lawns of Riverrun, the feel of his wife’s body against his as he slept, even his young son’s fingers prodding him awake each morning.  I can’t believe I missed Robb’s birthday. He’d sent the boy a card, some little handmade toys, and Catelyn a dress of Parisian silk, but it wasn’t the same.  _It’s your duty to be here though._ _Catelyn understands and Robb’s too young to know the difference._ Ned’s longtime friend Bob Baratheon had a contact in the Parisian police force, and had asked him to go over and help out with an ongoing embezzlement case. It was supposed to take a month. It had been nearly a year and Ned was about ready to walk off the case, honor and promises be damned. He paced across the small garret apartment the police department had afforded him, throwing his bulky frame on the rickety, narrow bed pushed up against a wall. It creaked under him as he shifted, grabbing a wrinkled, balled up telegram from the wooden chair set next to his bed.   
  


_ Ned - Lyanna poss. spotted in Paris, Montmartre dist. Find her, bring her home.  _

_-Bob and Ben_

 

  
He sighed ,  running a finger over his little sister’s name.  _Lyanna..._ the girl had run off some years earlier, eschewing the neat and orderly life that awaited her in Kingsport. She had spurrned Robert Baratheon’s advances and offers of marriage, defied her brothers and father, and had fled to Europe. She would send notes every so often, just enough to let them know she was alive and well, but it wasn’t enough. Ever since Brandon had died half a world away, Ned and his younger brother Benjen had grown desperate to find her. He’d never thought it would happen like it did, though.  
  
_Ben, I’ve already found her,_ Ned recited the words over and over in his head. It wouldn’t be so hard to send his brother the message, but that would only invite trouble given her current state. Sleep wouldn’t come tonight, not for Ned, so he rose wearily and pulled on his overcoat, tripping heavily down the creaky wooden stairs and exiting into the chilly March night. His thoughts drifted back some three months to when he’d stumbled across his sister.  
  
It had been purely by accident that he’d run into her coming out of one dance hall or another, long dark hair flowing over her shoulders and her wide mouth full of laughter. She’d stumbled over one of the cobblestones that made up many of the older Parisian streets, and her hands had splayed across his chest.  
  
“Oh, je suis tellement desloe, monseiur-” Lyanna had looked up at him, her grey eyes widening in shock. “ _ Ned?! _ What on  _Earth?!_ ”   
  
“Lyanna.” Ned’s shock manifested itself as it always did - a dull lift to his voice outwardly; however, inside it felt like his insides were about to wriggle their way straight out of him. Before he could say more, though, she’d thrown her arms around his neck, and he found himself doing the same to her. She felt...odd. Different than the last time he’d hugged her, so many years ago. He supposed it was just the layers of clothes she was wearing - a long, oversized coat with the sleeves rolled up over her wrists, a frilled white blouse tucked into men’s trousers, and so many beaded necklaces and scarves Ned was surprised she hadn’t toppled into the street. She raked a hand through her hair and pulled her coat around herself almost self-consciously. Ned noticed she was shivering, and wrapped his own scarf around her neck. “We’ve been trying to find you for months, Lyanna. Years, even.”  
  
“I know, and I’m sorry, Neddy.” The sound of her childhood pet name had nearly made Ned smile, but any emotion was still buried too far deep inside of him to show on his face. “I couldn’t come back to the States yet. I just couldn’t. You understand, don’t you?”  
  
“No, I don’t, Lyanna.” Ned seized her arm, noticing how easily his fingers encircled her upper arm as he pulled her out of the throng. “We’ve been scared to death trying to find you, not knowing if you were alive or dead, not knowing if you were alright. And then I find you on  _accident_ , coming out of a place like that?” He gestured angrily at the dance hall, which advertised a menu of sights and entertainment that turned his stomach. “How could you be so selfish?”  
  
“Don’t, Ned.” Lyanna’s smile vanished and her eyes hardened into steel-grey chips. “Don’t come here and talk to me about being selfish.” Ned sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. The last thing he wanted to do was argue with Lyanna, especially since it had been purely by chance he’d even found her. Evidently she felt the same. Her expression softened, and she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Come on, brother. It’s late, I don’t want to fight with you and I’m famished. I know this little cafe not too far away.”  
  
‘Not too far away’ turned out to be nearly on the other side of the city near the Right Bank. Lyanna had pulled him down a narrow, crooked street near the Seine. Ned had to admit, it was sort of a charming little spot. From here he could see the Eiffel Tower gleaming and lit up for Christmas.  _Cat would love it here. Maybe a second honeymoon this summer..._ Lyanna jostled his arm, disturbing his thoughts. “What?”  
  
She was looking up at him strangely. “I said we’re here.” Dropping his arm, she reached deep into one of her coat pockets and pulled out a hairpin. Twirling her hair around it, she jabbed and wrapped it into a messy bun that on any other woman would’ve looked slovenly. “Come along.” Ned let her pull him into a dark, smoky cafe, and he steeled his jaw as he entered. This wasn’t the sort of place any Stark should be seen, much less his sister. In one corner a group of shady-looking men sat hunched over glasses filled with absinthe, and near the dampered fireplace lay a patron who may’ve actually been dead, signs of heavy opium use surrounding him.  
  
Lyanna, of course, seemed to notice none of this or if she did, wasn’t bothered by it. “Etienne! Crêpes! Et les fraises et le chocolat, et certains de ces petits pains frais, si vous en avez, et le café, noir!” She called out to a broad, doughty lump of a man making his way through the cafe and grinned up at Ned. “I come here all the time. Now sit and tell me what you’re doing here.”

  
He guided her to a small table, as far away from the absinthe and the possible corpse as he could get, and made to help her out of her oversized coat. “No, it’s alright, I’m cold.” Lyanna had said, and there was a touch of panic in her voice.  
  
Ned furrowed his brows. “Ly, it’s at least 80 degrees in here. C’mon now, don’t be difficult.”  
  
“Ned, no-” But it was too late. Ned worked the coat off her shoulders and tossed it over the third chair at their table. When he turned back to pull out her chair he felt as if he’d been struck between the eyes with a hammer.   
  
“Lyanna, what-” His eye were stuck on her midsection, rounded and straining her blouse.  _No. This_ cannot _be_ .  Ned lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “You’re  _ expecting? ” _  
  
Lyanna sat quickly, folding her arms across the swell of her stomach and glancing around. “Quiet! Sit down.”  
  
Ned did so almost mechanically, his legs feeling leaden while his stomach was a roiling mess. “Who did this, Lyanna? Tell me.” She opened her mouth to object, and his fist clenched on the table. “ _ Tell me. ” _  
  
His sister glanced up as Etienne plunked down plates of food in front of them, pouring out coffee thick enough to hold its own shape. She waited until they were alone again before she spoke, taking a bite out of her crepe as she did so. “I’m not telling you.”  
  
“Oh for the love of God.” Ned fought off the urge to grab her and shake the answers he wanted out of her then and there. “Ly, this isn’t some game like when we were little. This is...whoever it is...he’s taken your virtue, your _ honor . _ And I want to know who’s responsible for it.”  
  
“Oh please.” Lyanna scowled at him. “He didn’t take my virtue. It was long gone by the time we met. And it doesn’t matter who he is, Eddard. I’m raising this child on my own.”  
  
“Doing what, singing in the streets?” Ned tore a roll in half, hardly tasting it. “You’re being ridiculous. Come home and we’ll find a home for it, and I’ll find you a husband who’ll overlook this,” his mind churned, searching for the right word. “this indiscretion.”  
  
Lyanna’s cheeks had blazed in the low light. “It’s no indiscretion, Ned, it’s my child, and I’m not about to let you take it away from me!” Her jaw set in a stubborn way, one he recognized from when she’d been a child, and he sighed.  Try and more and you’re like to push her away. You’ve only just found her. Don’t lose her again, Ned.  
  
Rubbing a hand across his face, Ned had taken a sip of coffee and winced. It was strong, bitter, burning all the way down. “Alright, forget I said that then. Does the father know, at least?”  
  
Lyanna hesitated, setting down a forkful of crepe and strawberries. “I haven’t told him yet, no. He’s due to be in town soon though, and we’ll talk then.”  
  
“Good.” Ned sat back a little. “I’ll meet him then, and see you two married.”  
  
“No, Ned!” Lyanna was blinking rapidly, a small silvery tear tracking unexpectedly down her cheek. “It can’t happen. He’s got a wife, you see.”  
  
_This just keeps getting worse and worse. A child out of wedlock, and by a married man at that._ Ned felt vaguely sick as he tried to think of a way to fix this, to restore his sister’s name. “God, Ly. You’ve gotten yourself in deep this time.”  
  
“Don’t say that like I don’t know it already, Neddy.” Lyanna’s shoulders had slumped then, and before he knew what he was doing, Ned was rubbing a hand over her back gently, something that had soothed her as a child and seemed to bring some small bit of comfort now.   
  
For what felt like the hundredth time that night, Ned sighed. “We’ll fix this, somehow. Just please, Ly, tell me who did this. You’ve never kept secrets from me before.”  
  
She gave him a long, searching look, chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Will you swear to me, on your honor as a Stark, that you won’t hunt him down or hurt him, or have anyone else do it for you?”  
  
“I...” Ned swallowed, then nodded before he could think. “I swear it.”  
  
Lyanna took a deep breath, and a bite of crepe before answering, and her voice was so quiet Ned had to lean closer to hear. “Rhaegar Targaryen.”   
  
_The diplomat’s son?_ The Targareyns were a long-established modern dynasty, scattered throughout Europe, some acting as diplomats, some as politicians. This Rhaegar...Ned had seen his face frequently in the newspapers, and had heard how he was a lover of the arts, of music and painting, sculpture and opera. He was the upper-crust of Europe’s elite, and Ned could not for the life of him fathom how he’d found his stubbornly bohemian sister, or how he’d bedded her. “How?”  
  
Lyanna shrugged, an uncharacteristically shy smile playing about her features. “I hardly know. My friends and I were at the Moulin Rouge, and apparently he was here on business, and wanted to see what all the fuss was about. He was by himself, no guards, no family, nothing, and we were sitting near each other. We just...came together, Ned. I can’t explain it. I love him.”  
  
Ned fought off the urge to roll his eyes. Lyanna was so young, just eighteen. What did she know of love? “Of course you do. But what’re you going to do if he doesn’t want this baby, Ly?” He could tell by the way her lips had tightened she’d been thinking an awful lot about that. “Please, come home. I swear I won’t go after him, and we’ll raise the baby, you and me and Ben and Father. It’ll be good for Robb to have a cousin - he’s just turned 3 now, and he could use a companion. We could summer up at Winterfell, teach them how to swim in the lakes up there, go boating. It’d be perfect.” Ned could see he almost had her, that she was picturing the mirror-calm lakes near their childhood home, the whisper of the summer winds through the pine trees and the cry of the loons at dawn and dusk alike. “We’ll raise it as a Stark.”  
  
Quick as lightning, the soft, reminiscent look on Lyanna’s face fled into the Parisian night. “But it won’t be a Stark, Neddy,” she replied in a tone just as dark. “And it can’t be a Targaryen either.”  
  
“We’ll figure that out later, at home, Lyanna.” But his baby sister was shaking her head, resting a hand on her belly a bit miserably.   
  
“I can’t go home again, Neddy.”  
  
That night had been the first of many such nights, where he’d find her and take her out to dinner, make sure she was eating well enough to sustain herself and her unborn child. Lyanna never let him see where she lived, although she had told him where it was, and always avoided questions about what she did, her travels, or who her friends were. At the close of each night she’d peck his cheek and head to the small flat she kept over a boulangerie, pointedly ignoring his pleas for her to come home. As her time grew closer, Ned began to fret over what he would do when she did have to deliver the baby - he’d told no one on the police force about his sister, knew no doctors who could help, or midwives. He knew nothing about bringing a baby into the world - Catelyn had told him in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want him in the room when her time came, and Bob had just clapped a hand on his shoulder, laughing in that loud way he had and telling him his part was done the second he’d shot his seed into his wife.  
  
Ned shoved his hands deep into his pockets, heading down one twisting cobblestone street after another. Lyanna had seemed quiet at dinner tonight, a little more drawn than usual. When Ned had asked her if everything was alright, she’d given him a tired smile and told him of course. He hadn’t believed her, though, and before he knew what was what he was standing in front of the boulangerie. The windows, of course, were dark save for one two stories up. Somewhere in the distance, a clock bonged the hour... _2 in the morning. She should be asleep by now._ Seized with a sudden sense of dread, Ned pulled the door open, barely hearing the lock snap, and started racing up the stairs at the same time a scrawny, dirty child came racing down them. He saw Ned and froze, babbling in French. Ned wracked his brain - he had a passing understanding of the language, but had never become particularly fluent in the slippery tongue.   
  
“La...la police?” He tried, and the boy blinked. “Uh...damn...Lyanna?” This time the boy gave him a curious look, babbling again. Ned picked out his sister’s name, but nothing else. “Damn it, boy, hang on! Je suis son frère...is she sick? Malade? Est-elle malade?” He tried. The boy nodded sharply, grabbing Ned’s sleeve and hauling him up the stairs.  
  
His heart pounding with dread, Ned pushed the door open. He considered himself to have a strong stomach - he had to, in his line of work, but the scene that lay before him made his head spin. Lyanna lay on a soft-looking featherbed, blankets and sheets tossed aside. Her face was the whitest Ned had ever seen, and even from across the room he could see her chest barely moving. That was nothing though, compared to the black-red pool of blood spreading out from underneath her. It had saturated the mattress and dripped onto the floor, the sharp copper scent of it filling his nostrils. He almost didn’t recognize the low moan he heard as coming from his own throat.   
  
The boy garbled again and pulled at his hand, gesturing to a second woman, one he hadn’t noticed immediately. She was holding a swaddled bundle, clutching it close and gesturing right back at the boy. The conversation shot back and forth between them, but Ned ignored them. Lyanna...my baby sister... She turned her head and held out a hand to him, a miniscule movement that somehow sent another gout of blood from between her legs and Ned could hardly stand. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder, shaking him once. “Un médecin. Obtenez un médecin, rapidement. Go!” Shoving the boy out the door, Ned brushed past the woman and the bundle he couldn’t look at, kneeling at Lyanna’s bedside and taking her hand. It was so cold, so still already. “Ly?” His voice shook, and he cleared his throat. “Lyanna?”  
  
Lyanna gave a ghost of a smile, fingers twitching in his. “The baby came fast,” she whispered, and he had to lean down to hear her. “Too fast to get you first. He’s beautiful, Neddy...” She coughed, and Ned brushed away tears that were rolling out of her eyes. “I’ve got a little boy...take him home, like you wanted. Raise him.”  
  
“No, Ly, you’re going to do that. I’m going to take both of you home, and you’ll be swimming in the lakes up north in no time. Just as soon as it’s warm.” Ned couldn’t understand why  her tears were blurring  his  vision.   
  
She shook her head, a bead of sweat rolling down her too-pale face. “You always were a terrible liar, you know that?” Lyanna drew a breath. It had a rattle to it that Ned had heard far too many times, and the sound drove an icy spear down his spine.  _ This isn’t happening, this  can’t be happening, where’s the Goddamn doctor? _ “His name is Jon.”  
  
“A good, strong name.” Ned tried to smile, but his lips weren’t cooperating. “Jon Stark.”  
  
Lyanna shook her head again and he could see how the effort had drained her. Her words were coming haltingly now. “He’s not a Stark. Give him his own name, Ned. Do it for me...and promise me, you’ll raise him as your own. Love him as your own. You can never tell anyone about this...promise me, Ned.”  
  
Ned tried to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He nodded jerkily, clearing his throat again. “I promise, Ly.”  
  
She looked at him, gave that ghost of a smile, and then as simple as that, Lyanna was gone.   
  
Her hand went limp in his, falling unmoving to the bed, and her starry grey eyes focused on something a million miles away. A wail went up from the corner, the high-pitched squeal of a newborn craving his mother’s breast, but it didn’t register with Ned. He touched his sister’s cheek, marvelling at how smooth it was, how warm. It didn’t seem real - Lyanna was going to open her eyes easy as that, and they were going to laugh and count her son’s wrinkled little toes together. But even as the thought crossed his mind he knew it wasn’t true.  
  
Ned touched his forehead to his sister’s, glancing the briefest of kisses across her cheek and smoothing her hair back. He stood stiffly, only then realizing the knees of his pants were soaked in her blood, and turned towards the woman in the corner. “Give him here,” he said, not even bothering with her language. “I’ll take him with me.”  
  
A week later Ned stood on the decks of the  _RMS Baltic_ , watching the docks below as a plain wooden box was loaded into the cargo hold. His jaw clenched, and he fought off the urge to yell at the crew members, to shake them and tell them that was his baby sister in there. He shook his head though, turning his pain internally where it belonged, and looked at the boy laying content in his arms.  _Jon. Jon without a last name. Jon without a mother._ Ned had sent a terse telegram to Cat, explaining the truth that would shape the boy’s life - Ned had taken a lover shortly after arriving in Paris, and the girl had died birthing his son, who he would be bringing home, and to please not ask any questions until they got home. It was a harsh, cruel story, and Ned hated having to lie to his wife. He hated it more than anything, maybe even more than the gentle aristocrat whose love had taken his sister from him. Ned had debated sending a telegram to the embassy who could get in contact with Rhaegar, and decided against it. He could rot in Hell, for all Ned cared now. It was going to be hard enough dealing with Bob when he got home...that hardly bore thinking about right now.   
  
Above him the ship’s horn bellowed, and a cheer went up from some of the passengers as the tugboats began to slide the  Baltic out of port. A stiff wind blew up, carrying with it tiny flecks of snow. Ned tucked Jon’s blankets tighter around him, glancing up at the leaden sky.  _Snow. It would be snowing._ Turning his gaze back to the baby, Ned brushed some of the flakes off his nephew’s forehead-  _ no, your son. He is your son ... remember your promise. Every time you see snow, remember your promise. _   
  
The baby gave a little coo, grabbing clumsily at Ned’s scarf. “Snow,” he murmured. “You will be Jon Snow.” The boy blinked up at him, and Ned turned his back on the receding French coastline. They were going home.  
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
